HOW HAPPY MUST HER LOVER BE

I saw the most beautiful braid.

It was on on adorable young woman. She was tiny, kind of round, with a sweet face.

But the Braid!!!!

It was shiny and black and went all the way down her back, almost to the bottom of her bottom.

All I could think of was how happy her husband must be when she'd get into bed, undo the braid, and have that gorgeous hair all around her naked body.

Apr. 8, 2024

GEEZER MAGNET

 I have a very cute very red sports car. Its a convertible. I try to only own convertibles, starting with a $25 blue vw that was held togeter by duct tape in the late sixties, or early seventies. This was in Manhattan where no sane person who was not a millionaire (simpler times when only a million made you rich) had a car at all. Of course people in the boroughs could have cars, as you will see below.

When I say the VW cost $25, I meant to me. In fact I co-owned it with my two good friends, David and Lindsay.We must each have paid $25, so it really cost $75.

Lindsay and David had been roomates in a wonderful brownstone in Brooklyn, ever since Lindsay had kicked out her husband who had the stupidity to tell her he wanted her to trade in her little blue MG convertible for a station wagon. This was way before SUVs. Trying to be fair, I'll mention that they had a baby son, Eric, and probably husband found it difficust to go places as a threesome, tho the child, Eric, could sit in a lap as this was also prior to seat belts and car seat requirements. But it was fraught with symbolism. Lindsay, while acknowledging her roles of wife and mother, did not see that there was to be no more to her than that. Reminder, Lindsay was gorgeous, played piano and flute, had studied ballet for years, but was too tall to make a career of it, and was studying linguistics so she could earn a living while traveling around the world.

Selling the MG was not part of this picture, at least until she was buying her round-the-world ticket. Anyway, husband moved out and roommates moved in, one of whom was David. This was before I knew either of them. Or Eric.

Time passed and Lindsay moved to Manhattan near me, and we found ourselves taking classes at Hunter. David continued in the Brooklyn house with a variety of colorful roommates. And we all became fast friends.

David, who was studying philosophy at NYU, was a fix-anything kind of guy. So that even though we could all see the bubblegum that held the chassis to the frame, and even though there were several shades of blue represented, we bought the car.

I don't remeber how we divided the usage up, but somehow, David always had it when it needed work--go figure! It was nearly impossible to secure the car, being a ragtop and all, but as the only vehicle in our circle of friends, it was very popular. But, as I mentioned, hard to lock up. Also, part the problem in NYC was parking. Less so, of course, in our East Village neighborhood. Sometimes I had to make an ever-widening circle of my apartment in search of a spot. Which happened the night before the morning in question. I had finally found the perfect spot, where it was safe from quotq-seeking ticketers until 11am.

Which is why

david ! up one day saying he had the potential for this convertible, and did we want in? Did we ever

Car moved

borrower saying to get an antenna

talking my way out of  ticket (Italian lesson)

Oh, there is so much more to this story!

MYSTERY DELIVERIES

 SOMEONE SENT ME THREE JARS OF DELICIOUS SALSA.

You know how Amazon is, no identifying paperwok comes in the box.

I contacted the usual suspects, my family and close friends. No one of them sent it, or they started to pretend they did when I said how yummy the salsa was. 

Then, I ordered a baseball cap with a ponytail already attached. It came, sans ponytail. I told them of the mistake, and they sent me two more--both without the essential thing, the hair.

I re-ordered, and this time two different styles, figuring maybe they were just out of the one I initially chose,

Three more empty caps were delivered.

Then, some special coffee I had ordered for my brother as a housewarming gift, apppeared at my door, instead of his.

Normally, I look forward to the packages because I don't remeber what I've ordered by the time it gets delivered. So there's that little frisson of potential joy upon opening.

As for the coffee, after I fired off two scathing emails to the producers, I realized I had not given them my brother Robby's address. Oh well.

Most recently I got a myterious 3-pack of Psyllium Husk Caps, 500 mg.  Not really the stuff of joy. And what can I do with them? a bit indelicate to offer them to friends. Perhaps I can mitigate with an Xmas bow.

CRIMINALIZING MOTHERHOOD

My friend Lori and I had fun imagining some aspects of what a matriarchy would be like. Only women having guns, for example, or abortion as a a crime prevention tool. And maybe a party, or maybe vasectomy parties. But nothing prepared me for this new anti-choice initiative, as discussed by the Supreme Court following the Texas legislation. Thay legislation, as you recall, limits abortions to 6 week old pregnancy. Most of wouldn't even knowwe were pregnant at that point.

It is well-known that Americans hate children. No other developed country makes it so hard to take care of a family. hardy any child care, same with leave for the birth of a cjild, even though study afte study shows that early months with a baby allow both it and the parents to thrive. 

All this is well-known. 

The only time a child is cared about if before its a child, while it is still a fetus. 

This is well-known.

Although that also pointsa  to another American hatred, women.

Prior to Scalia's death,

Clarence Thomas went 10 years without asking a question during proceedings. This week, Thomas broke his usual silence to ask a question that has pro-abortion activists livid. ” Does a mother have a right to ingest drugs and harm a pre-viable baby? Can the state bring child neglect charges against the mother? “ he asked.

Who accuses? Who reports? IS a mother-to-be's time to be spent looking over her shoulder, defending her choices or go to jail?

Who would ever want to be a mother?

THE EUROPEAN UNION--WHAT IS IT GOOD FOR?

 I WATCHED IN DISMAY

as Brexit became a reality. This, even before I learned of the huge role Russia played in putting out the falsehoods and other disinformation that lay at the basis of the UK's lamentable choice. 

I blamed, and still blame, the EU itself for not explaining the reasoning behind its existence to everywoman. It shouldn't take a degree in political science to understand the basic tenets of peacekeeping and prosperity-making that is the underpinning of the organization. The lack of PR is astounding, especially now when social media makes it so cheap and easy.

AND HERE WE ARE AGAIN--missed opportunity on an even grander and more tragic scale. 

Where was, is! this august body of world leaders, supposedly dedicated to the common good, during the refugee crisis.

People are dying of the cold, starvation and disease. What better opportunity for a united front for humanitarian aid and beyond. Yet they bicker and deflect as if people weren't dying. They act like babies pushing away the pureed vegetables. While they ought to lead the way.

REALLY.. SHAME ON YOU. WHAT ARE YOU ALL GOOD FOR?

DEMOCRACY--WHAT IS IT GOOD FOR?

 

DEMOCRACY—WHAT IS IT GOOD FOR?

The thing about democracy is, it isn’t a thing. 

And we can never really have it.

The very wonders that are in the definition are not achievable. They are goals. 

It’s a process, that never actually becomes a thing, even itself.

We aspire to it, or not.

And we are heading toward it, or not. We try for it, aim for it. Yet ultimately fail.

But that fail is still trending toward it or away.

Its an arc, with a long, mostly gentle, incline. Then it gets to whatever height it gets to, and starts to devolve, descend.

Gently, or not.

When I hear politicos say they want to “bring democracy” somewhere, like dessert to a dinner party, I cringe. Do we have it to give?

Anyone can look at our nation and see that, as a bastion of democracy, we suck. The hubris involved in thinking we can create it elsewhere would alone be enough to guarantee our failure, if hubris caused failure any more. (In Greek tragedy hubris meant excessive pride toward or defiance of the gods, leading to nemesis. And that certainly seems to be where we are headed today. To nemesis. In fact, we may have met nemesis already—Trump.)

As the Greeks before them, the founding fathers (you notice no mothers, let alone LGBTQ) required a certain level of education and property ownership for citizenship. Skin in the game, in other words. And the ability to comprehend and VALUE the structures and systems that support democracy. or at least them.

BUT TO ANSWER THE QUESTION, democracy is something, however unachievable. We try to move toward equal value for every life, equal opportunity for every child. We do this by understanding what creates these equalities. 

We have a long way to go, but...

IT'S NOT TRUE THAT ITS GOOD FOR ABSOLUTELY NUTHIN'.

WHOM TO THANK?

 I AM SO thankful. Various current problems and reverses notwithstanding, there is a lot of good in my life. Also, I know that gratitude is helpful in maintaining good spirits and equanimity. Particularly in the face of difficulty.

BUT I AM AN ATHEIST.

No, not a namby-pamby agnostic, but a true non-believer. Of course, having been brought up Catholic, more or less, I have plenty of residue and issues. 

So, whom to thank?

Do I thank my crazy, dysfunctional addicted parents for bringing me up the way I am?

I can't thank god, or godess, or godesses--although I do like the image of lots of godesses on high, deciding on our fates. But only the good stuff.

Do I thank the benefactor of my life that got me out of Dodge? That would be Sister Charlotte Marie, my High School Principal at St. Mary's Girls High School in Lynn, Massachusetts. She saw to it that I entered the College of New Rochelle, a scant half hour from Manhattan, after I delivered my daughter to Catholic Charities and her adoptive parents. I never even applied to a school, thinking I would work in a diner and bring up my child in squalor. She got me to New York. What an incredible gift.

Yes. I'll thank her.

SWINGIN' 'TIL THE END--DOTTIE DODGION

 Dottie Dodgion dies at 90.

Famous jazz drummer I never heard of. She didn't like to do solos! Have you ever heard of a drummer who didn't? Well. 

She hardly ever did solos, 

and when she did, her solo approach "came from being a singer.

I'd hear the melody inside my head, so the rhythms I laid down always followed the song form of whatever tune I played."

Kidnapped by her drummer father at the age of 5--he had left the family when she was 2-- she toured strip joints and roadhouses with him and his band 'til she was 7.

Her mother had remarried and her step father raped her. He went to jail for 20 years.

She spent her weekends with her dad at Streeets of Paris, a strip clup in San Francicco.

Gradually her singing gave way to drumming, and she worked with such greats as Charles Mingus, and Nick Esposito. Marriages and breakups ensued.

Benny Goodman hired her and her third husband, she thoughit was just to jam. But he put her on stage. For ten nights she played with him, then he forgot to mention her name when he listed the band. The audience roared in protest,, and asked her name. After the long standing ovation they gave her, Benny Goodman's manager whispered, "Bye," in her ear on her way out.

She was fired for getting more applause than her boss.

WHAT ARE WE SUPPOSED TO DO WITH ALL THE MEN?

 AM I CRAZY OR have you noticed that there is a lot less attention paid to #MeToo these days. I'm sure I'm not alone in thinking that not everything that needs to be said is said, or needs to be done is done. The depth of damage going back millenia has left women so far behind that catching up is unimaginable. And yet we have to try.

As with many social movements, #MeToo has hurt a lot of people that it is supposed to help. An example would be the so-called sexual liberation of the sixties and the seventies. It was fun, but a lot  was just more pressure, and coercion, of women to give it up for free. I remember sitting at the bar in Maxwell's Plum in NYC. A guy sitting next to me was trying to pick me up but I wasn't interested in him. After a few polite rebuffs on my part he became angry. Accused me of being frigid, and worse, a Lesbian. What other reason could there be for not wanting to leave instantly and fuck him (not sure if dinner was on offer.)? This was not liberation at its finest, and I venture to say it wouln't have happened before. Or now.

A male psychiatrist told me, when I expressed my distress at being "admired" constantly on the street, that I should think of myself as a work of art.

What are we supposed to do with the men who have been called out, or those that haven't? Are we to deny them any afterlife? Do we count any good stories, movies, legislation they wrote as tainted? Is there a possibility of partial recovery? Is a legacy destroyed?

I'm not talking about true evil like Epstein and Weinstein, but more nuanced evildoers, like possibly Cuomo--although maybe he is really bad, too. I don't have the facts.

But what about Al Franken? 

A major disaster of #MeToo, for example, was losing a good senator. 

His comments about the hypocrisy of the GOP certainly rings true. 

As we wait for the other millions of shoes to drop.

Isn't it likely that most men have incidents that would clearly mark them for public castigation if only we knew?

Someone gave me a book of Woody Allen stories. They are funny. Can I never admit to enjoying a Polanski movie? 

Remember when many vocal feminists were up in arms because Hillary stuck with Bill after Monica?

What are we to do with all the men?

Most of them have simply not been caught. Are those, guilty but unaccused, to be treated as it they are blameless? The good guys? If by some stretch of the imagination we allow that maybe they have not offended, are they, we, not gulty of collusion for not calling them out? More urgent, for not calling out the system that fostered and protected the undermining of women at every turn?

TRUTHINESS--SUCH A GOOD WORD

 

I am sure that among the many legacies of Stephen Colbert, a decent amount of attention will be paid to 

TRUTHINESS,

a brilliant coinage that I take to mean something that has some of the trappings of truth, but isn't. It works perfectly to describe most utterings from politicians. For the most part, when I hear a speech or an interview, say on NPR, of an elcted official, what I hear is truthiness. 

Most politicians have learned several things about speaking to the public.

One, to say the same thing over and over, using different words, althought they often use the same words, too.

Two, not to answer question directly or at all. They just carry on saying whatever they were saying, not even alluding to the actual question.

Three, never to answer a yes-or-no question with a yes of no.

Four, most common, to blame someone else.

These characteistics also apply to official corproate spokespeople, after a disaster, like an oil spill or deaths in a mine. Particularly when said corporations are clearly at fault. The Exxon oil spill comes to mind. To hear them (Exxon) talk, the problem was in the government cleanup response. Nothing to do with lack of safeguards that every knowledgable person knew would lead to exactly this disaster. But cost cutting and profit maximization won out over considerations of safety and environmental damage.

But I digress. 

TRUTHINESS

Why am I carrying on about truthiness? Because of Trump.

You understand, truthiness is based on a resemblance to truth, a certain plausibility.

But all that was lost during Trump. There was no relation to truth, however tenuous.

There was no acknowledgment of facts, however glancing.

There was no respect for the listener, however slight. 

The Ameirican people could have no expectation of honesty, and the Trump people, it seemed, had no expectation that they would be believed. Americans gave no hint that they expected their leaders to purvey anything at all related to the truth. 

MIGHT MAKES RIGHT

is the thing, the only thing. With Trump as Commander-in-Chief, anything goes, and anything went. 

So how could the concept, not of truth, but even TRUTHINESS survive?

It couldn't. Now, with a better president, perhaps it could be revived. With it we could poke fun at the blatherers and nothing-sayers, and the hemmers and hawers, in the good-natured ways of the past.

But what to do with the previous administration's four years of utterings? I call it 

TRUMPINESS.

CLUMSY REFLEXES

Someone commented on my good reflexes the other day. And you know what? It's true. I have great reflexes, better than ever, and they seem to be improving with age. 

I attribute it to my increased fitness regimen, which, not to bore you I will describe very briefly: 5 core barre classes a week, one 20 lap swim, and 3 sessions of live-ball tennis.

This is up from 2 or 3 classes. So now.

I still knock things over, and drop them, but because I am so fast, I usually catch them before they fall over or crash on the floor. Truly an improvement.

WHAT DO WOMEN WANT?

WHAT DO WOMEN WANT

Ah Freud. You have a lot to answer for.

Some of your stuff is so silly, yet it has taken hold.

People who would die before admitting the need for psychological counseling will blather on about Oedipus complex in all its 

Unlikely tawdriness. 

Egosuperegoid! Ego, superego??? and id? Enough said.

The unconscious--there is gold there.

I'm all for bringing the unconscious to consciousness to heal psychic wounds.

Let there be light, as it were.

But what about the women? Most of us eschew the cocaine that you 

relied upon.

Some have answered the question reasonably.

Women want, mostly, what men want:

Autonomy, equality, upper body strength and equal pay.

That said, there is a simpler more basic and happier answer to the question. 

What do women want?

Women want more dancing.

A BIG SCARE

 FOR A WRITER, little is scarier than losing one's writing. I have 2 screenplays and a novel, all brilliant, naturally, that have disappeared. 

YIKES

WHERE'VE I BEEN? GETTING VACCINATED

 WHEW! 

A thousand pounds has been lifted from my shoulders, that I didn't even know was there.

Our fabulous son-in-law hugged his parents for the first time in many many months--could it be a year? A picture was taken and it made me cry. 

I want to be doing some of that very soon.

We've been playing online poker with some tricoastal relatives. This way, twice a week, we get together and chat. Much more often than we ever were in touch before Covid. This was a good thing. Each of us used iPad, Computer and cell phone to utilize poker game app (luckily a genius nephew took care of setting it all up), and we'd play silly games (Elevator) and catch up and discuss hands and luck and so on. In fact, I think we all want to continue the games after we are re-normalized.

My adorable and gorgeous husband has set up my computer for me so I can blog more often.

Later.

BACK THEN, 2

Hunter College, CUNY, was not then, or possibly ever, a hotbed of anything. 

If we wanted to see the real deal "revolution"aries, we'd go upto Columbia, a subway ride away. There were speakers and ranters all around campus and in auditoria. Some quite famous but I forget their names. The Beatles chimed in with their song, Revolution, in 1971--can you believe the single had Hey Jude on the flip side?--, so this was a bit later. I think they were addressing the year 1968 with this song. 

Revolution

Beatles

Aaahhh!
You say you want a revolution
Well, you know
We all want to change the world
You tell me that it's evolution
Well, you know
We all want to change the world
But when you talk about destruction
Don't you know that you can count me out?
Don't you know it's gonna be
All right
All right
All right

You say you got a real solution
Well, you know
We'd all love to see the plan
You ask me for a contribution
Well, you know
We all doing what we can
But if you want money for people with minds that hate
All I can tell you is, brother, you have to wait
Don't you know it's gonna be
All right
All right
All right

You say you'll change the constitution
Well, you know
We all want to change your head
You tell me it's the institution
Well, you know
You'd better free your mind instead
But if you go carrying pictures of Chairman Mao
You ain't gonna make it with anyone anyhow
Don't you know it's gonna be
All right
All right
All right

All right, all right, all right
All right, all right, all right
All right, all right

Songwriters: Lennon John Winston, Mccartney Paul James

BACK THEN, FIRST IN A SERIES

I have a very beautiful friend whom I met when we were both at Hunter 

College in the late 60s. Hunter, an all women's college, had a very high academic rating which was to come crashing down. First, instead of the rigorous requirements from when I entered, the City experimented with a plan to allow any and all high school graduates admission, to sink or swim. And if that wasn't bad enough to send academic standards to circle the drain, they then started letting in men.

Because it was late 60s, we never knew if we'd have class or not, as I mentioned in an earleir post. As a result, we often came to class with our toddlers on our hips, not wanting to spend money on babysitters.I was thrilled when this beauty patted a seat next to her in logic, with a handsome young bearded professor. We liked him, he liked us. In fact so much did he like us, that he offered to pay our tuition (both of us) to medical school, if we would pay him back later. There is probably something I forgot about this putative transaction. But it was beyond generaous, yet in a way, in the sprit of the age. We were planning toremake the world in a kinder, gentler, more enlightened way. It was a remarkable offer, but not unthinkable in those innocent heady times, before Kent State.  

 

  TO BE CONTINUED

RIGGED ELECTION

 IF THERE ARE QUESTIONS ABOUT A RIGGED ELECTION SHOULDNT WE BE QUESTIONING THE 2016 ONE WHERE TRUMP LOST THE ACTUAL VOTE BUT WON BECAUSE OF THE ELECTORAL COLLEGE?

COVID, GOOD FOR THE SKIN

One of my dearest friend's mother was a skin specialist and cosmetician. When her daughter visited, the mother ran around after her, dabbing fancy emollients and applying moisturizer to my friend's face, exclaiming all the while about the damage caused by dryness, and more laments, many more..$5 version

It's interesting that her mother chose skin care, eventually opening several fancy spas around the country and creating a skin care line. Mom had been in medical school, in the 40s, on her way to MD-hood when she got a horrible case of acne. 

Now, in addition to being very smart, she was beautiful, and acne was not in the cards for her. Being almost a medical professional, she had access to the best , but after much money and time was spent visiting lots of the "top" doctors around the country to no avail, she returned home dejected. And still with spots.

Being a scientist, she was dismally disappointed and flabbergasted that there was no help for her in her chosen profession. Today, we'd probably have quickly hit upon stress as a serious factor in the outbreak, especially for a young woman trying to buck the misogynous tide of Med school. 

One day, pondering her future both as a doctor and beauty, she saw a cosmetologist's office. Figuring she'd try anything now, she went in. After a few treatments, she was back to her blemish-free self.

And out of med school. She had found her true vocation, and made a huge success of it, remaining beautiful way into

her 80s.                   $1,200 version

 

Now, thanks to in-sheltering and so on, I find myself wandering around my place, frequently ending up in the bathroom, and applying fancy emollients to my face.

It's barely a lining, but it is silver.

CE N'EST PAS MAURICE

EARLY SEASON'S GREETINGS!

My lovely, talented friend was hired to Deck the Halls of a fancy residential compound across the street from me. Loving me, and willing to cater to my predilections, she invited me over to watch her work when she realized pink champagne was being served. 

She told me to bring my own glass.

I did, and we had a lot of fun, masked, of course, except when sipping. The woman who hired her and her friend were well into the encouragement phase of the bottle when I got there, and we enjoyed a parade of very high class doggies (and owners) parade through the lobby on the way to elevators.

One such irresistible creature was a brindle French Bulldog. Painfully adorable, and so I exclaimed. 

The owner, an attrractive blond, was obviously used to the admiration her pet inspired. "Thank you. Would you like to meet him?" she said.

Eagerly, I fixed my mask, and offered my hand to the cutie. I leaned down, the dog leapt up, knocked against my flute, et voila! Champagne cascaded through the air.  Pooch, remaining aloft as only champagne can inspire one to do, deftly drank from the air, landing back down at the same time as some drops of champagne, which he scarfed up as if in fear I was going after it.

Laughing, all present admired the performance. 

"His name is Maurice," the owner said.

PROUST

HOW CAN I READ PROUST IF I DON'T LIKE MADELEINES?

MAKING SAUSAGES

OKAY OKAY OKAY

Now I've gone back to some exercise, since we are allowed to do classes outdoors with masks on,

I love PURE BARRE, and so do a great many extremely good-looking women.

 

It only stands to reason that many in my class would be in good shape, right? We are a self-selected group who have chosen to sacrifice time, money and effort to 

have good bodies.

These days, especially, it's a sacrifice since we are outside in a parking lot that the city of Santa Monica allows the class to use. It was filthy the first few times. I worked out on a broken-down cardboard carton donated by a classmate because I didn't know I had to bring my own mat. That was cute, and I have some pictures of me looking like a crazed homeless woman gyrating on the crenallated paper that was protecting me from the crumbling asphalt.

 

The next day I brought my mat, but it got so dirty I had to give it a full-on bath when I got home. So I bought a cheap mat at TJ Maxx, and that was better.

 

Then the city kindly started to wash the parking which was really great especially after it was done a few times, cumulatively cleaner.

But my new cheap mat let the water through. It seems they washed the lot minutes before the start of our class--9 am. (I had to throw away one mat already because it got so disgusting one morning when I had to be in the shade, ergo in a puddle, that I kept from evaporating by my presence.

So not only was the mat wet, so were my special socks, pants and top. I should mention that this outdoor workout is particularly impressive because of all the tiny muscles we need to shanghai in order to stay on the mat, and not let any part of our bodies stray onto said crumbling asphalt. So, good for the workout, bad for the outfit.

But my main point here, and I wish I had photos to show, and maybe I do and can add them later, is that we are a good looking bunch, dressed in minimal and skin-tight clothes, cavorting, stretching, lunging, and tucking--how suggestive is that!!!? Moves not unknown in strip clubs, even. Totally out in public.

For all the world to see. And we are in downtown Santa Monica. Loads of socially distant and masked persons, including men of all ages and types, pass by.

Loads.

You would think that all this toned and barely clad pulchritude would garner an appreciative audience. I don't mean anything I'd have to #MeToo about, but some smiles and lingering glances would not be inappropriate. We are out in public, after all. 

But no!

Nary!

Nada!

Women sometimes watch, and maybe come ask about classes. But men, never. Why?

Because while they admire women. They admire good bodies. They do not like to see what we do to get them.

Men do not seem to want to know how the sausages are made!

 
 

THE TRUMPED UP PRESIDENCY

These last few weeks have been so momentous, so fraught, so bursting with implications, that it scared me, stunned me away from my blog. The thing that sustains me is that it could have been so bad. Four years ago, when Trump was elected, no one imagined how bad it could be. Unthinkable, how bad it actually was. This time, we know exactly how it would go. So whatever fears and worries I have about how hard it will be to indo the massive damage to America's spirits, reputation, and power to do good in the world, I only have to think of how bad it could have been.

This thought usually restores my spirits. And we will just have to word hard for incremental victories, as done by our dearly departed RBG. And try to stay united in good will and willingness to compromise when possible. 

BTW there is a very good documentary series called The Reagans, about the family who came up with the MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN slogan, and how explicit its meaning was, then and now.

FYI--DO YOU KNOW WHAT Crispr MEANS?

Crispr--spelled just like that, is the gene editing technology that allows us, or rather scientists who do that sort of thing, to edit genes. Essentially, a damaged or wrongly-tuned piece of a gene can be removed to change a disease-causing gene into a benign gene. Or a piece of another, presumably better, gene or virus can replace a bad bit. Then the "repaired" gene can function without causing whatever problem it used to, and the host, plant, animal, or person, can carry on happily ever after. Weird and wonderful things can happen, e.g., the AIDS virus may be able to cure Sickle Cell.

Crispr stands for "clustered regularly interspaced short palindromic repeats". 

AMERICAN JIHADIS?

 

MY GOOD FRIEND, born in another country but a naturalized citizen, told me she saw on the news a woman who refused to wear a mask. The maskless crusader, and I say this advisedly as well as ironically, was asked if she wasn't afraid for her health, what with Covid and all. She answered, fervently, 

"I would die for that man."  

What is this about? Is this the same impulse that sends young people strapped to bombs out into crowds?  

If, in fact, this reflects a desire to be part of something bigger, what is the something bigger here that she so stoutly identifies with?

It's not a movement, religion, mission. What is it? I think that for those who identify with the caliphate, say, or the reward of 75 virgins, there is an important (to them) goal. Unity, kingdom of Heaven, sex with inexperienced (probably) minors--dubious fun. 

I look at Trump, and most of his followers, and I see no identity. I only see contrast, opposition. He is rich. They are not. He has a lot of influence, they don't. He spends $70,000 a year on his tangelo mop. They may want to, but they don't. Until recently, he belonged to that disdained minority, Manhattanite. Mostly, they don't. Many, in fact, gloat that cities seem to them to be losing ground.Twice divorced, mostly they are not--they may wish to be but, oh, the expense! Mostly they can't afford it.

Help me with this list here. I'm not coming up with things they can identify with.

I get the anger, but is that enough? It's not his anger. I don't mean he's not angry. He clearly is. But he's angry about his dad, or slights to his ego. His accolytes are angry about real things. Low wages. Dead-end jobs. A feeling that America isn't theirs any more. But this is not his anger. Is it enough just to be angry? DOES ANGER UNITE, NO MATTER THE REASON? Is that an emotion that can dig down into anyone's psyche and say, I'm with you there. Yes, I'm pissed off. Vote for me and let's be pissed off together. 

WE may be pissed off about different things, but isn't it fun to rage in a big bunch?

 

LET'S HEAR IT FOR THUNDER THIGHS

 

Not only is this woman gorgeous,

This is the ideal healthy shape

According to TODAY'S ScienceTimes. 

(From The New York Times:

Where You Carry Body Fat May Affect How Long You Live

Extra weight in some places may lower your risk of dying prematurely.

https://www.nytimes.com/2020/10/01/well/live/where-you-carry-body-fat-may-affect-how-long-you-live.html?smid=em-share)

It seems that, as with so many things, with body fat, it's location location location. As we've heard before, fat around the middle is bad. That's because it indicates that there's fat inside, around your vital organs. That internal fat is very bad, and stifles important stuff. 

But what is new and interesting is there is good fat--not chloesterol, not olive oil, but plain old body fat.

It's good to have it around your thighs. It's good to have it on hips. Good news, right?

But only if your waist is trim.  Waist fat is an indicator of visceral fat, that is itself an indicator of increased risk for heart disease, diabetes, and Alzheimer's, among many others.

FYI, I started back at my Pure Barre classes last week. That's how to keep waist small, tummy tight and butt firm with a smiley-face between butt and thigh.

I know it's

Pandemic time. 

I know that several naps a day seems de rigueur.

I know that 2 glasses of Cabernet are also de rigueur.

But, or should I say BUTT we gotta keep that girlish waistline.